More than Instinct
by nanniships
Summary: Supervising every aspect of the lives of the even-toed ungulates at the Yorkshire Wildlife Park and raising his daughter with the help of his father is quite enough to be going on with for Dr. Joe Molelsey. But a fortuitous meeting of the newest Primatologist on staff, Dr. Phyllis Baxter, begins an unlikely friendship. Being in love requires something more than instinct.
1. I live for obligatory fundraisers

I live for obligatory fundraising

"Your face will freeze that way."

Dr. Joe Molesley rolled his eyes into the mirror at the reflection of the girl sprawled out across his bed. She kicked up her feet behind her and wrinkled her nose at him.

"That's just something your Granddad tells you to stop you being so cheeky," he mumbled, jerking impatiently at his tie and scowling again.

"No?! Really?!" she gasped. "And here I've lived thirteen years under the impression that my angry face would rule my destiny…"

Joe snorted in amusement as his daughter draped herself over the end of the bed like she'd fainted. Giving up on his tie for the moment, he pulled his braces up over his shoulders and turned around to stare at his formal suit, hanging on the hook on the back of his door. His eye was caught by a darker patch of fabric on the lapel and he groaned as he realized that the stain from Tom Branson's Guiness last year hadn't come out well.

"They're twisted up, Dad," his daughter informed him, swinging her legs gracefully around to sit up at the edge of his bed.

"What?" he asked, turning around in a circle as he surveyed what he'd managed to put on up to this point. "What's twisted?"

"You are," she replied with a giggle. "And so are your braces. In the back." She made an exasperated face and whispered "Doofus" under her breath.

Joe went selectively deaf and decided to ignore her last comment as he reached around to straighten out his braces. "I bloody _hate_ this."

"Why go then?"

"Because you don't eat, take dance lessons, or purchase new rings for that God awful hole in your nostril if I don't work—"

"Leave off my piercing already—"

"And our esteemed director feels that the endless fundraising benefits from requiring the professional staff to show up at least once a year. So…I live for obligatory fundraising."

"Whatever," she responded. "You'll sneak off as soon as everyone gets pissed and spend the whole evening canoodling with Dori."

"She could drop her calf any day now—-"

"Honestly, Dad! Were you as excited just before _I_ was born?"

"Well…it's a lot more unusual for a giraffe to give birth for a third time in captivity than for a human girl to appear in the middle of a Ruminant Nephrology seminar…"

"I'm thinking of getting a tattoo, you know."

"Over my dead body," he replied absently, taking another stab at his tie.

"I'll just wait until you're off at a Ruminant Nephrology seminar…"

"Hah! For your information, I'm not attending a Ruminant Nephrology seminar this year. Is this straight, Tess?"

With a sigh, she hauled herself off of his bed and walked over to eye his tie. Shaking her head, she pushed it and tightened it until it passed her muster.

"You're a bit hopeless," she informed him.

Before he could reply, they could hear his dad's voice summoning Tess to set the table for tea. With an almighty eye roll, she trudged towards the door.

"Alright! Alright! Keep your shorts on, Granddad!" she yelled in response to his repeated summons.

"Never mind my shorts," his dad's gruff voice replied. "Put out the plates, love, and get the butter from the fridge."

Joe smiled as he listened to their give and take, remembering that his dad hadn't been as tolerant of _his_ cheek when he was thirteen. His daughter had all the spirit of her mother without the cruel streak, and his dad had been as enamored of her as he had been from the moment she was born. Pulling on his jacket, he shot his cuffs and walked out to the sitting room to join his family.

"You let her get away with too much, Dad," he teased. "I'd have had my ear clipped if I'd talked that way to you."

"Aye? Well, it's the _father's_ job to do any ear clipping," Bill Molesley promptly responded, staring at his son from under beetled brows.

"Hello? Sitting right here while you discuss whose job it is to beat me around the head," his daughter said from the table, raising her eyebrow at the two of them.

"Sorry. I've got a fancy dress ball to get to. No time to be beating you around the head. Maybe tomorrow."

"Will you be late?" his dad asked as he put a serving bowl down in front of Tess.

"I hope not. It'll depend on how Dori is doing…." He grinned as his dad just sighed resignedly.

"It's too much to hope that you might have a bit of fun, then?"

"Most likely. Don't give your Granddad any trouble, Tess. Get that essay written."

"I will after I destroy him at cribbage," she promised, shoveling potatoes into her mouth.

"That'll be the day," Bill said with an indulgent smile at his granddaughter.

"I'm off then," Joe announced. His father and daughter turned to look at him, giving him the once over. Tess suddenly burst into giggles.

"What?" he demanded, as her face got red. "What's so funny?"

"You might want to put your shoes on before you go, Son," Bill suggested dryly.

"I was just about to!" he protested, sweeping his eyes around the front room, hoping to spot his plain toed Oxfords lying next to the front door.

"They're in the kitchen, where you left them after you polished them. And where I tripped over them twice getting tea ready."

Joe opened his mouth to reply, then settled on glaring at them as he bustled off in a huff to retrieve his dress shoes.

"Alright, then. Will I do?" he asked, stepping back out into the front room.

"I suppose you'll have to," Tess replied.

"Thanks for that," he said, bending to kiss the top of her head. "Don't stay up too late. Help Granddad with the washing up. No tattoos."

"Spoilsport. You'll probably be home before I go to bed. Because you have no life."

"God willing and no surprises," he intoned, winking at his dad.

As he fetched his overcoat from the closet in the entryway, he listened to the murmur of their voices and wondered when his daughter had gotten too old to kiss him goodbye. Lingering near the front door, he heard her lowered voice as he started to shut it behind him.

"Was Dad always so weird?"

He latched the door on his dad's bark of laughter and wished with all his heart he was sitting down to tea with them rather than rushing into the night to put in an appearance among the well heeled animals lovers of south Yorkshire.

"Do it for the giraffes," he told himself sternly. "It's just another typical fundraiser in a long line of fundraisers, world without end."

With one last longing look at his dad's cottage which had been his family's home for the last ten years, he climbed into his Dacia and headed towards the Yorkshire Wildlife Park. If nothing else, he'd be able to spend some quality time with his favorite pregnant giraffe….


	2. First impressions are worst impressions

First impressions are my worst impressions

The satisfaction she received when the answering machine hit the wall and broke into several pieces was short lived.

"Why can't any of you take a little bloody punishment?" Dr. Phyllis Baxter yelled at the sad remnants of the answering machine.

Resolving to not replace the machine, she went back to her task of unpacking books and lining them up, according to subject and author, on the sturdy bookshelves that had followed her for her last three moves. It was her third answering machine in six months. And every time she resolved not to get another.

Not that it would stop him from calling. Nothing stopped him from calling. But at least the answering machines were cheaper to replace when he did call than her cell phones. She still regretted tossing her Galaxy S5 into the canal after the last argument she'd had with Dr. Peter Coyle.

Getting a new phone gave her the opportunity to change her cell number. He'd managed to sniff out her new address and home phone number through mutual acquaintances - _those bloody idiots_ \- but hadn't winkled out her cell number yet.

This new phone might actually last awhile.

She sighed and shoved another book onto the shelf with unnecessary force. The rain of books pouring off the top of the bookshelf where'd she'd stacked them made her wince with every thud onto the carpet.

"I don't know why I keep letting him upset me," she muttered as she scooped a now bent copy of _Chimpanzee Politics: Power and Sex Among Apes_ from the floor and began leafing through it absently, as if the answer she sought was hidden its index. "It's done and if he can't deal with that, it's not on me."

Straightening suddenly, she laid the book on the top of the bookshelf and turned away from her piles of unpacked boxes that lined the wall of her small sitting room. Instead she went over to stare at the formal black dress hung neatly in the garment bag.

"New job…new start," she proclaimed firmly. "No more mixing work with dating. No more lowered expectations. And no more bloody Dr. Peter Coyle, biostitute extraordinaire and all around wanker of the first order!"

As if on cue, her house phone began ringing. She whipped her head around to glare at it, waiting for the answering machine to pick up before remembering that she no longer had an answering machine.

"Oh, sod it," she barked after listening to the phone ring seven times. Striding angrily over to the side table where it sat, she yanked it off its charging cradle and pressed the answer button.

"What do you _want_?!" she demanded. There was a confused noise on the line, then silence for a moment.

"Have I reached Dr. Baxter?" the deep voice asked hesitantly.

Phyllis felt her stomach drop and gripped the phone hard enough to make the plastic casing groan. "This is Dr. Baxter," she murmured and bit her lip. "Um…Dr. Carson?"

Dr. Carson grunted affirmatively and cleared his throat. "Have I…disturbed you?"

"Oh no," she hastened to reassure him, beginning to pace nervously around her sitting room. "I um…I thought it might be someone else."

"I gathered," he replied neutrally.

"I've been getting some…ah…annoying hang up calls," she improvised. _I only wish they were bloody hang-up calls…_ "My apologies, Dr. Carson."

Dr. Carson made a noncommittal noise and an awkward silence descended on the line. Phyllis cleared her throat nervously, remembering the stern visage and intimidating silence Dr. Charles Carson had rested on her during her interview. She would never know if the committee's decision to hire her at the Yorkshire Wildlife Park was a unanimous one, but the interview had left her with the impression that the assistant park director and former consultant at the Snowden Aviary was less than impressed with her. He'd scuttled her hopes that her CV and publications would speak for themselves and zeroed right in on the fact that running a research laboratory at a minor university was not necessarily the equivalent of managing the day to day needs of a congress of baboons.

Phyllis felt queasy at the continued silence and swallowed hard. "Was there something I could do for you, Dr. Carson?" she inquired, wincing when it sounded a bit defensive and a touch petulant.

"I was simply calling to ensure that you were aware of the fundraising event this evening, Dr. Baxter. You might have been under the impression that, as you have not officially started your position, you were not invited. Let me assure you that your presence is not only welcome, but very much…requested."

 _Such a polite way of saying command performance without actually saying it._

"Of course, Dr. Carson. I was just checking over my dress when you called," she hastened to assure him. _Oh God…he didn't need to know that! Just shut up…_

 _"_ Ah….well…I look forward to seeing you this evening, Dr. Baxter," he replied uncomfortably.

"I look forward to it as well. Thank you for calling."

As they exchanged farewells, Phyllis was relieved that she'd sounded like a professional adult by the end of the call, at least. She placed the phone handset gently and deliberately into the cradle before staggering over to the sofa and collapsing onto it.

"Oh God," she moaned as she held her head in her hands. "Why are my first impressions always my worst impressions?"

Phyllis allowed herself approximately ten minutes for self pity, but found herself unable to sit and mope on the couch for longer than eight. Sighing heavily, she stood up and wandered into her bedroom to begin the task of scraping off the grime and dust from unpacking. As the shower started up, she stared at her reflection, taking in the thinness of her face, the dark circles under her eyes, and the dirt under her nails.

"You look like pestilence on a banana," she informed herself sternly. "Better do something about that." Her attempt at a smile didn't reach her eyes, but it was a good effort, and she resolved to practice it while she was cleaning up.

"It can't be as bad here as it was at John Moores," she told herself. "You'll do fine!"

It didn't escape her that the primate behavior research done at her former place of employment had been good solid work, and that it had been her personal relationship dramas that had soured it for the entire team. At least, she didn't lie to herself.

Well, not often, anyway.

But she recognized how fortunate she was to find anything even remotely in her field after the last research review and the way Peter damned the whole team's findings with such faint praise it practically screamed "professional misconduct!" without actually saying so. Not everyone on the team had been this lucky and Peter had "rescued" a few of them by bringing them along as research flunkies when he took a position with BP in Southern Africa as a "biological and environmental" consultant.

The water trickled over her face as she struggled to adjust the shower head and contemplated the low six figure salary with corporate perks she could have had if she'd gone along with her ex-lover's plans and ambitions. When she couldn't manage to turn the lever for more pressure, she slammed her fist on it until the entire head cracked and began shooting water all around the glass shower surround.

"Bloody fucking hell!"

After several fruitless minutes of trying to fit the shower head back together, it came off entirely in her hand. She figured it was a message from whatever deity was screwing with her lately that she wasn't going to have a nice, leisurely shower. And of course, there was no towel on the rack.

Dripping water, she stomped naked out of the bathroom, not giving a rip if the shades were drawn in the bedroom. Grabbing her robe, she wrapped up in it and began rummaging frantically through the boxes labeled "Linens." Three boxes into her search, she found the bath towels and snatched the first one she laid her hands on.

Everything just suddenly seemed to be a bit too much. She sat down on the floor next to the open boxes and scattered sheets and just stared at the wall. The last bloody thing she wanted to do was get dressed to the nines for a formal fundraiser.

"There's no way out of it," she intoned into the empty room. "I've got to do it if I want to do well in this job." She shook her head, and with a grunt pushed herself up off the floor.

"And I've got to stop talking to myself," she mused aloud. "It's ridiculous and is going to send me mad if I don't watch it." For a moment, she remembered fondly how much fun Peter had been to talk to, at least.

"God…if they could see me now…"

With much muttering and no pleasure, she continued to get ready, mechanically putting on her make-up and long black dress.

"Do it for the bloody baboons and your salary," she told herself as she locked the door to her flat behind her and waited for her cab. "If this is your only chance, then make the most of it."


	3. Weirdest pick-up line ever

Dr. Joseph Molesley could actually feel the pressure behind his eyes as they bugged out. His pulse pounded erratically and his hands clenched into fists as the oblivious patron continued to ramble drunkenly about "running this zoo like a bloody business!"

"You've got to be bloody fucking kidding me!" he exclaimed in a strangled voice that carried to the nearest small group of people chatting in the corner he had tried so desperately to disappear into. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his colleague, Tom Branson, hurrying over.

"S'all you need to do, mate," the guest slurred on, completely missing Joe's comment. "When you got too many of a somthin', internet's a answer to evr'thing…"

" _You cannot list a juvenile Reticulated giraffe on e-bay you grindingly stupid—!_ "

Tom's hand suddenly gripped his bicep like a tourniquet tied by an over enthusiastic power-lifter. As the guest squinted in confusion, Joe found himself dragged off towards the bar by a grimacing, muttering Tom.

"You need a drink!" Tom informed him with a warning glare.

Joe shook him off irritably and stared back at the baffled guest in loathing. When Tom shoved a plastic cup into his hand, he nearly dropped it onto the carpet.

"What's this?" He stared at Tom in confusion. "You know I don't—"

"It's just _water_ , you idiot," Tom hissed at him. "Now…drink up and go find another corner to skulk in, alright?"

"E-bay, Tom! Bloody e-bay!"

"Get over it, Joe," Tom ordered, "and stay away from Dr. Hughes. She was standing right next to your stroppy little melt-down over there, and she doesn't look too bloody happy."

Joe cast a frantic look around until his eyes met the piercing glare of Dr. Elsie Hughes, Assistant Park Director and Large Mammal Exhibit Manager, his immediate supervisor. She looked less than pleased with him. One might even say she was seething.

"I hate this," he whinged.

"Everyone hates this," Tom informed him in a bored tone. "I'm three or four drinks behind my usual coping strategy because I knew you were going to make an arse of yourself the minute you stomped off and ran right into our new primatologist. You're in rare form tonight, Joe."

Joe flushed and searched the crowd for the lovely, disgruntled woman he'd nearly flattened trying to get away from a crowd of older women who were determined to quiz him about Okapis. He'd barely had a chance to get a good look at her before she'd been whisked away by Dr. Anna Bates, herpetologist and one-woman welcome wagon among the zoo professional staff. Nobody argued with a woman who usually wore a seven foot Ball Python around her neck.

"Joe? Hey, Joe?" Tom waved his hand in front of Joe's face.

"Sorry, Tom," he muttered dismally. "Go ahead and get pissed; I should be fine." At Tom's skeptical look, he made a game attempt to grin. "Go on then. I'll see if I can't find the new baboon lady and apologize."

"Well…" Tom replied, looking longingly at the tap, "if you're sure….?"

"I am," he assured Tom. He started to wander away, when Tom's voice rose behind him.

"Little advice, Joe…Don't call her baboon lady."

* * *

Dr. Bates was a lovely person, but Dr. Phyllis Baxter was relieved when she was called away to explain the difficulties of trying to assist in a captive breeding program for the St. Lucia Racer Snake. She'd been introduced to six new colleagues, two programming staff members, the director of volunteers, and a vociferously inebriated patron who seemed to be under the impression that Phyllis specialized in hedgehogs and who spent nearly ten minutes rhapsodizing about her "precious, recently deceased Flibberget" before Anna was able to escort her to a different group of people.

"Does she expect me to raise her hedgie from the dead? That's neither zoologically possible nor theologically sound…" she'd muttered to Anna, who'd nearly choked on her drink.

"Oh, you're going to fit in well around here," Anna had replied, wiping her chin with a napkin and smirking at Phyllis.

Phyllis had just smiled and hoped she was right. Things hadn't started well when she was nearly knocked over by a fuming wanker Anna had identified as Dr. Mole-something, giraffe specialist. Anna's assurances that Joe was a good bloke, just uncomfortable at these gatherings hadn't made her any more anxious to get to know him.

Managing to sidle over to an unoccupied space against the wall of the room raised her spirits a bit. From there, she was content to observe the laughing, chatting groups of zoo staff, management, board members and patrons. Her immediate supervisor, Dr. Elsie Hughes, had spotted her and looked as if she was about to try to engage with her. But fortunately, she was distracted by something happened near her, and Phyllis silently thanked whoever had pissed her off.

"This would be so much easier if I could drink," she muttered to herself, watching the water in her plastic cup swirl around.

"Why can't you?" a voice asked from her right.

Phyllis spun around to see the man who'd run into her earlier. He cringed away from her glare and gripped his own plastic cup tighter.

"Sorry to bother you," he went on, clearing his throat. "I didn't think anyone else was hiding over here."

"I'm not hiding," she snapped at him.

"Pfft…I am," he replied. "It's been a terrible evening, and I can't drink either."

Phyllis just raised her eyebrows and looked away from him dismissively.

"First, I accidentally run into a new colleague, who probably thinks I'm a total waste of space…and I'm really sorry about that…"

She stole a quick glance at him as he proceeded through a recitation of his woes in a gloomy voice.

"Then I get cornered by old Violet Crawley, who wants to discuss the general cleanliness of the elephant enclosures - which aren't my responsibility…"

Phyllis' lips twitched at his affronted expression.

"Then I'm practically assaulted by some bleeding Tory _fruitcake_ who thinks we should liquidate our excess stock on e-bay for a profit. Tom Branson had to physically drag me away and Dr. Hughes probably wants my head on a wall for insulting a rich bastard. Fortunately, he was pissed off his arse…"

She bit back a laugh as his voice went up half an octave in amazement and disgust. He stole a quick glance at her.

"And now I'm trying to sneak off out of sight until this bunch enters the booze-o-sphere so I can go check on my pregnant giraffe," he finished.

"And you can't drink because you might have to play midwife to a pregnant giraffe?" she replied after a moment.

"Dori could drop any day now, but that's not why I'm not drinking. I never drink at these things."

"Neither do I."

"Why not, if you don't mind me asking?"

"You already asked."

"What? Oh…right," he said sheepishly. "None of my business, eh?"

Phyllis frowned and watched a staff member attempt to explain how an antelope spronks to a small crowd of skeptical observers. Joe snickered as they watched her flailing arm smack a glass of wine out of a guest's hands.

"I'm surprised they haven't trotted you out to introduce you to everyone," he mused, stealing a look at her face. "New baboon lady, and all." At her glare he winced. "Primatologist, I mean."

She gave him an irritated glance and looked away again, muttering "even-toed ungulate wanker."

"Hey, at least primates get funding," he protested. "Primates are sexy when it comes to fundraising. No one gives a toss about even-toed ungulates."

Phyllis looked at him, wondering if he was yanking her chain. He looked back soberly, but his eyes were twinkling with humor.

"I just about cope with the fact that the primate house is stocked with thirty thousand pounds worth of toys for research while I have to go steal tires and barrels from the rubbish tip for my deprived giraffe children," he went on with a heavy sigh, "as I'm constantly reminded that no one cares enough about even-toed ungulates to make large cash donations."

"Are you _sure_ you haven't been drinking?"

"Now, if you were to stroll out there to that group of well heeled baboon aficionados chatting with Charlie Carson, who appears to be looking around the room for someone - I wonder who that might be, and make a few comments about the danger facing our closest relatives and the work we do to ensure their survival, the checkbooks will fly out so fast, Charlie will have to duck to avoid being decapitated."

"I think you need to shut up now," she hissed, as he raised his voice and gestured.

"But you'd rather stay back here with the even-toed ungulate wankers who are rubbish at flirting."

"You were trying to flirt?" she asked in disbelief.

"Nah. I'm rubbish at it. I was just trying to pass the time until I can sneak off to the giraffe enclosure." He looked over at her huff of frustration. "Unless it's working, in which case, I'm very sorry I almost ran you down."

"You already apologized."

"Not very well, I don't think," he said ruefully.

"This entire conversation is a bit surreal," she informed him.

"How about we start over, then." He surreptitiously wiped his hand down his trouser leg and extended it. "I'm Dr. Joseph Molesley, giraffes."

After a moment's hesitation, Phyllis reached out. "I think I got the giraffes part down already. Dr. Phyllis Baxter, baboon lady."

Joe grinned and shook her hand. "I'm not very good about meeting new people," he confessed.

"I'd have never guessed," she replied dryly.

"So….are you having a good time?" he asked.

"No. Are you going to ask if I come here often next? Or tell me you can show me a good time? Or complement my dress?"

"I thought we'd already established that I'm rubbish at flirting."

"That's never stopped most blokes."

Charles Carson's deep voice rang through the room as he asked Anna Bates where Dr. Baxter might be. Phyllis' eyes widened in panic and she looked around frantically as fight or flight started to kick in.

"I'm not sure, Dr. Carson, but I'm sure she's circulating somewhere, getting to know people…"

Dr. Carson made a skeptical noise and began scanning the room. Phyllis had resigned herself to further introductions and unpleasant encounters with strangers when she saw Joe slip behind a pillar near an exit door. Determining on impulse that following the odd zoologist was better than being paraded in front of a mob of donors, she crept after him.

Joe was startled when she appeared next to him. She held her finger in front of her lips.

"Shhh. I'm getting to know people."

"He'll find you eventually," Joe warned her in whisper, feeling absurdly like a ten year old playing sardines again.

"Maybe he'll get distracted," she whispered back.

Joe grinned as he watched her peer around the edge of the pillar and took the chance to look her over a little closer, sweeping his eyes up and down her black dress and staring at her ankles in her heels. When he looked back up, she was staring back at him with a raised hostile eyebrow.

"That's a smashing dress," he blurted. She shushed him. "Sorry."

Avoiding her eyes, Joe took a turn reconnoitering Dr. Carson's movements. A roar of laughter from the middle of the room distracted him as he wandered towards their general area.

"Now would be a good time to find another hiding spot," he informed Phyllis.

Phyllis sighed. Suddenly, she felt too tired to be arsed to even try to avoid Dr. Carson or anyone else. Her feet hurt and she was hungry. The only person she'd passed more than five minutes of conversation with was Dr. Joseph Molesley, who was annoying in an oddly endearing sort of way.

"No more," she mumbled. "I just need to get this over with."

"Probably for the best," Joe agreed. "Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Would you like to meet my pregnant giraffe?"

"Are you serious? Or is that the weirdest pick-up line ever?"

Joe grinned at her at gestured towards the exit door with his head. She looked at him for a moment, then grinned back at him, thinking she'd made worse first impressions in her time.

"Oh, what the hell…why not?"


End file.
